


gratuitous skeleporn for kinktober 2019

by nilchance



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Consensual Somnophilia, M/M, Massage, Phone Sex, Titfucking, Underfell Sans (Undertale), detachable ecto-vagina, kustard - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-11-22 20:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20880215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Just what it says on the tin, a collection of unconnected smutty ficlets of various lengths and pairings.





	1. day 3: breastplay (kustard)

In the end, it takes Sans a couple hours of practice and way more effort than he's usually willing to spend, but it's worth it to see the look on Red's face when Sans unzips his jacket.

"You like?" Sans asks, poking one of his shiny new breasts with a finger. They jiggle. Red makes an inarticulate noise, and Sans grins. "Thanks, I made 'em myself."

Red comes over and sits on the couch, his eyes fixed on Sans's chest. He looks fascinated, his eyelights bright and intense in a way that makes Sans feel stripped bare even in his clothes. Red starts to reach out and then hesitates, glancing at Sans's face. "C'n I touch 'em?"

Helpfully, Sans peels the shirt off his head and tosses it to the side. "Knockers yourself out, dude."

That doesn't even get him an eyeroll. Red immediately gathers up Sans's breasts in both hands. They're big enough to fill Red's hands and spill over a little. Even when Sans tried to keep the size under control so he didn't waste so much magic, his body defaulted to the same comfortably squishy excess it always does. Red doesn't seem to mind. He looks delighted, gently petting the upper curves as he weighs them in his hands.

"Fuck, sweetheart," Red breathes, sounding almost awed. "It ain't even my birthday."

Sans snorts. "If I'd known it would make you this happy, I would've tried harder to stay abreast of the situation. Coulda bought you some silicon implants on ebay to drool on, maybe."

"It's not the same," Red says. He gently presses Sans's breasts together and groans. "You're so soft."

"It's not a big deal," Sans says, amused. "They're pretty much just decorative unless you wanna fuck them."

Red gives him a hopeful look, which is pretty unnerving on his scarred, smug face. "Can I?"

"Sure," Sans says with a shrug. "Why d'you think I made 'em, to put my drinks on?"

Honestly, lying back, relaxing and watching Red lose it sounds nice. His breasts aren't particularly sensitive. He could really enjoy the view.

"You don't sound real enthused," Red says, watching Sans's face with a crooked grin that means he's about to pull some bullshit. "I mean, I don't wanna put you out."

"I don't--" Sans loses his train of thought, distracted as Red's thumb strokes idly over his nipple. It didn't feel like that when Sans experimentally rubbed them. Belatedly, he finishes his sentence. "-- mind. I put out all the time."

"Mm-hmm." Red gives Sans's other nipple the same gentle attention, and then both at once. Sans huffs out a startled breath, and Red smirks. "Decorative, huh?"

"Fuck you," Sans says automatically. His nipples are stiffening to hard points under Red's touch, and they seem to be directly wired to his pelvis. "This is a trial run. Still working out the kinks."

"Happy to help you with that," Red purrs. He bends his head and replaces fingers with tongue. Reflexively, Sans grabs the back of his neck to hold him there, and Red growls approvingly. He doesn't stop touching Sans's other nipple, catching it between his fingertips and kneading until Sans shudders.

"Okay," Sans pants after a long few minutes, trying not to grind against the couch as Red licks him. "You made your point. Let's move it along, buddy."

Red flicks his nipple, and Sans manages not to yelp. Lifting his head, Red grins at him. "Made something point, anyway."

"Congrats." Sans reaches out and palms the generous bulge in Red's shorts, giving it a quick squeeze to make Red groan. "So did I. You gonna use it or just brag all day?"

"Look who's in a hurry now," Red says. "Lay down."

So Sans lays down. It seems like the only way to get things done around here. His nipples ache, not unpleasantly, as he watches Red take off his shorts and get on top of him. It'd be easier on a bed; as it is, Red's knee is wedged awkwardly between Sans's ribs and the back of the couch. 

"Comfy?" Red asks. His dick rests on the soft magic padding over Sans's sternum, heavy and hot. When Sans gives him a thumbs up, Red cups Sans's breasts and brings them together, making a little channel for him to fuck. Red rocks his hips experimentally and sighs. "Damn, that's nice."

"Glad you approve," Sans says. Red's weight is comfortable on him, grounding him into the couch. It _is_ nice. 

Then Red thumbs his nipples, almost rough, and it's more than nice. Sans exhales, shuddering, and Red laughs. "You're so damn easy."

"Says the man with his dick on my sternum," Sans says, voice catching as Red thrusts against him. He can smell Red's precome, thick and familiar, and his body responds. It knows that usually means Sans is about to have a very good time. 

Judging from the smug look on Red's face, he knows. Red says, "Now that I got you here, you wanna find out if I can make you come like this?"

"What, without touching my pelvis? Good luck with that," Sans drawls. Might as well toss some lighter fluid on this fire.

Red gets that glint in his eye that Sans (loves) enjoys, the one that says _challenge accepted_. "Oh, honey. This is gonna be fun."


	2. day 15: somnophilia (kustard)

_taking a nap at your place. you remember that thing we talked about?_

That’s Sans for you. No point being direct when he can wind people through a maze of pretty bullshit. Sans has never given him a map, but Red has never needed one; he has mazes of his own, and he’s not afraid to break out the matches and gasoline if he has to. It’s amazing how easy Sans is to read if Red applies a little heat.

The point is that Red knows exactly what Sans means even before he comes home to find Sans naked in his bed. 

(These days, it’s _their_ bed, _their_ place; Sans sleeps here more often than not, an assortment of his stuff accumulating in piles next to Red’s. They don’t talk about it. Let Edge give Red all the pointed looks he wants when he comes over to find Sans’s socks wedged between the couch cushions.)

Sans doesn’t stir at the sound of Red’s shortcut. He looks comfy, all cuddled up in the sheets and blankets that are a relatively new addition to the bed. Sans is an enthusiastic convert to the church of bedding. It’s downright adorable. When Red draws closer to see if Sans is playing possum, he gets a faint whiff of the weed Sans smokes sometimes to help him get a decent night’s sleep. He’s trying to make this easier.

Red peels out of his clothes and carefully eases onto the mattress. Several months ago, Red joining him in bed would jerk Sans out of even the deepest sleep and end with somebody dodging an attack, which was fun to find out when Red thought _he_ was supposed to be the damaged one. Now Sans hums out a comfortable little noise and shifts to give Red his back in case he’s aiming for a bit of midnight cuddling that would ruin Red’s reputation if it ever got out.

Far be it for Red to turn him down. Particularly since this position gives him plenty of real estate to fondle.

Snuggling up all cozy, Red puts an arm around Sans and pulls him even closer. He pets Sans’s ribs in what he guesses is a soothing sort of way to coax him back to full sleep. It’s no hardship; he’s always been fascinated by how smooth Sans’s bones are, unscarred, slimmer than his own. Easy to break. Good thing Sans is tougher than he looks.

It’s not long before Sans drifts back off, his breathing going deeper and steadier until it reaches the familiar pattern that lulls Red to sleep at night. Red doesn’t tell Sansy how often he lays awake on the bad nights and just listens, breathing with him until he can finally remember that the Underfell days are over. Edge is safe, ensconced with his hubby in a nice little house in the goddamn suburbs. Red is… well, he’s here.

He’s pretty sure that a lot of those bad nights, Sans is actually awake and just won’t force Red to admit that he’s freaking out. Red doesn’t do him the same courtesy, but that’s all right. It works for them.

Red keeps stroking Sans’s ribs, lingering longer on the places he knows Sans likes. Slow and easy isn't his style, not unless he's got Sans tied up and is trying to get him to beg, but he doesn't want to jar Sans out of sleep. When he finally turns his attention to that not-scar on Sans's chest, Sans is ready for it; he makes a soft, honest noise and doesn’t stir. 

"There we go," Red murmurs against his throat. Sans is asleep and can't really appreciate the praise, but he always responds well to that particular tone no matter how out of it he is.

Red strokes the not-scar with a light touch, tenderly mapping it as the magic between Sans's joints burns hotter and his hips shift restlessly against Red's. He works Sans up with gentle, ruthless precision until Sans shudders. Through the covers, Red can see the muted glow of blue magic.

"What d'you got for me, sweetheart?" Red asks him, keeping his voice low and coaxing. He reaches between Sans's legs and finds a soft mound instead of a hard cock. Sans huffs out a breath, pushing into his touch, and Red's fingers skim his slit. He's soaked.

Fuck, it's tempting just to hitch Sans's leg up and push inside, but then he'd lose the way Sans is letting Red touch him without all the deflection and bullshit. There's no composure, no grinning mask, just the simple honesty of what Sans's body wants when his guard is down. Red is too greedy to give that up.

Gently, Red runs his fingers along Sans's slit. His touch is light; Sans makes a small noise in his throat and shifts into a better position, his legs opening for Red. On each stroke, Red lets his fingers delve in. He wets his fingertips in Sans's slick, and Sans sighs and rocks gently into his touch.

"That's right," Red tells him. His fingers find Sans's clit, barely touching, and Sans makes that drowsy, vulnerable noise again. Red kisses his shoulder. "Shh, honey. You're doing so good. Stay asleep for me."

He rests two fingertips on the side of Sans's clit. Fuck, it's hard, a slippery little knot beneath his fingers. He rubs in slow circles, barely teasing the hood back and listening to Sans's breath quicken. Sans grinds lazily against his hand, his rhythm almost dreamy, chasing his pleasure. Every time, Sans's tailbone grazes Red's pelvis and the magic gathered there.

Slowly, patiently, Red strokes him. The shameless grind of Sans's hips gets more erratic as he gets closer. His breathing gets louder, each one almost a moan as he squirms beautifully against Red, begging silently for more, faster, deeper. He needs something else.

The nice thing about tentacles is that Red doesn't have to spare a hand to guide himself in. He lets the tentacle find its own way, squirming slickly between Sans's thighs. He made it special for the occasion; it's thin, tapered so that it goes in easy at first, thick enough to stretch Sans at the base.

The tip eases into Sans. Even as small as it is, Sans is always so goddamn tight. Red grits his teeth against any sound that might wake Sans up, but Sans moans raggedly, grasping at the sheets as his head falls back against Red's shoulder. He's got to be close to waking up, but Red can't resist feeding him a little more. Sans's hips jerk, rutting against Red's fingertips, and Sans gasps awake.

Fuck it.

The tentacle sinks deep, ruthlessly seeking Sans's g-spot and _pressing_ in slow waves. Sans stiffens in Red's arms like he's being electrocuted and scrabbles at the bed, a moan punched out of him.

Tentacle still rocking against Sans's g-spot, making him tighten deliciously every time, Red circles his clit faster. Sans is so wet that Red's fingers keep slipping in it, messy and fast.

Grinning, Red says, "Hi, sweetheart. Enjoy your nap?"

"Fuck," Sans whispers, tight and strained. He's trembling on the edge, full-tilt desperation in a matter of seconds. He grabs Red's wrist, not to stop him but just to hold onto something. "Oh fuck, don't stop, just--"

Well, tempting as it is to make him beg, Red’s feeling merciful. He doesn’t stop, just turns and bites the pretty curve of Sans’s throat. That’s enough to undo him; Sans shudders, clutching at Red’s wrist as he comes with a shaky cry that’s going to burn itself into Red’s memory. After all that buildup, the hot clutch of his cunt is damn near enough to drag Red over after him, but Red holds himself back by the skin of his teeth. He has plans.

Finally, Sans goes slack against him. Red eases off, although he doesn’t pull out. He offers his wet fingertips to Sans to lick, and Sans nips at them with his blunt little teeth. Figures. Still breathless, Sans says, “You asshole, I’m gonna have to wear a fucking turtleneck again.”

“You really put the cum in complaining,” Red says, nuzzling the bite. It’s not a collar, but it’ll do. Less complicated that way.

“Okay,” Sans sighs, leaning his head to the side to encourage more attention. He’s just full of mixed messages. “That was a decent joke. Points for you. Speaking of points…”

Sans grinds back against him, a slick glide. When Red groans, Sans says, as smug as he always accuses Red of being, “You want some help with that? If not, I got a nap to get back to, so--”

Play-growling, Red rolls him over in the sheets. He gets Sans on his belly, a position that could be mistaken for helpless if Sans wasn’t such a vicious bastard who fights dirty. There’s a sweetness in that, knowing that Sans _chooses_ to let Red hold him down and press so deep inside him that Sans digs his fingers in the sheets and shudders.

“Yeah?” Red asks, leaning his full weight into Sans as he pins him to the bed. He knows Sans can take it. “You go ahead and doze right off, then. I can keep myself busy.”

There’s no answer for a moment but the traitorous shudder of Sans’s breathing and the wet sound of Red moving in his cunt. Then there’s a loud, obnoxiously fake snore.

Red laughs. Can’t help it. And then he does his best to wring every moan, shudder and reaction out of Sans until they’re both exhausted.


	3. day 22: massage (attl kustard)

When Sans curls his fingers around Red’s spine, he’s actually aiming to get laid, but the sex train immediately derails when he realizes that the magic between Red’s vertebrae is almost as rigid to the touch as solid bone.

Welp. That might explain why Red’s so goddamn surly tonight, his shoulders hunched instead of his customary sprawl that takes up most of the couch. Sans just figured his LV was riding him again. Might also explain why Red called him over to smoke weed, watch TV and probably exchange sloppy blowjobs. If this is how tense he is _after_ smoking up...

Sans feels up Red’s spine. He’s just as tense all the way to the back of his neck, wound tight as a wire about to snap. Feels like Papyrus when he’s got a migraine. Cautiously, Sans presses the flat of his thumb to the place where Red’s skull meets his spine.

“Ow,” Red complains, twitching away. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Your spine’s a fucking mess,” Sans says. “What’d you do, get a little too athletic with Edge and throw your back out?”

“No,” Red says irritably. “Just aches like a bitch sometimes when the weather’s lousy. Ain’t it like that for you?”

“Sometimes,” Sans admits. Not this bad, he doesn’t think. Probably because Red has collected more than his fair share of scars from attacks that could’ve killed him, and he’s carrying around the ambient tension of years of living in hell. That’s not the kind of thing your body can forget.

Right. So there’s no fucking way Red is going to let Edge rub the tension out of his back like Sans sometimes does for Papyrus when he’s headed for a migraine. They don’t really have that kind of relationship. If Sans doesn’t want to deal with Red being a sullen bastard until the weather improves, he’s gonna have to put some work in. 

(Okay, so he just doesn’t like seeing Red tense and miserable if he can fix it. Whatever.)

Sans cracks his knuckles and says, “All right, you wanna turn around and lemme see your back? I’m pretty good at backrubs.”

Red turns his head to look at him, eyes narrowed. For a long moment, Sans thinks Red might just tell him to fuck off. Then Red says, “Is this gonna involve a happy ending?”

“Happy as you want,” Sans says.

“In that case, it better be fucking ecstatic.” Red shifts to sit sideways on the couch, an echo of the way they sit when Edge heals Sans. The motion seems to cost him; he grunts softly with pain as he strips off his shirt, then hisses out a breath as Sans lays hands on him. Gruffly, he says, “Just don’t do it so goddamn hard, all right?”

“I thought you liked it hard,” Sans says. He keeps his touch light as he rests his hands on Red’s shoulders, his thumbs rubbing Red’s spine. Barely any pressure, but Red tenses beneath his hands for the first few seconds until he seems to realize that’s as hard as Sans plans to push right now.

“I do,” Red says, a leer in his voice that’s only a little strained. “Y’know, if you _really_ wanna work some tension out, I can show you just how hard I like it.”

“Maybe later,” Sans says. He keeps his hands where they are, trying to the tension out of the magic holding Red together. Turns out it’s just as stubborn as Red is. “Gimme five minutes and then I’ll suck your dick.”

“Fine,” Red sighs impatiently. “I hate to tell you, sweetheart, but this ain't gonna accomplish anything but straining your wrists.”

“My wrists are pretty tough,” Sans says mildly. “All those handjobs, y’know.”

“Oh, I know,” Red says, grinning. “Just lemme know when you’re ready to cry uncle.”

“Will do,” Sans says. “Now shut up and watch Mythbusters so I can concentrate.”

“Wouldn’t wanna harsh your mojo, babe,” Red says. Sans can tell from his voice that he’s rolling his eyes.

The truth is that Sans doesn’t actually need to concentrate in order to do this. It’s more instinct than anything, responding to the way Red’s body responds to him, a cycle of call and response that doesn’t require any more mental bandwidth than a blowjob. But it might work better if Red’s not focusing on how this is definitely a complete waste of time. 

If he accomplishes nothing else, at least Sans can feel Red’s shoulders gradually ease out of that protective hunch; whether because he's relaxing or because he's just distracted by explosions is anybody's guess. Sans's hands warm up with the steady friction, and he presses that warmth deep into Red's magic to coax it to ease up. It’s safe right now. It’s okay.

Five minutes pass. Red doesn't say a word, so Sans doesn't stop.

Eventually, by degrees, Red's body gives up some of its tension like it’s easing out of a perpetual flinch. Not all of it; Sans has barely touched below Red’s ribs, hasn't fucked with the back of his neck at all yet, but the stretch of spine from the top of Red's shoulders to the base of his ribs feels less like it's strung together by steel cable. He didn't realize Red was taking the same shallow, careful breaths Sans does when his soul hurts, not until Red takes that first deeper breath and exhales it in a very quiet sigh.

As Sans works his way back up to the base of Red's cervical spine, Red's head tips forward as he leans subtly back into Sans’s touch. The back of his neck looks oddly vulnerable, even protected by the collar.

“That okay?” Sans asks, his fingers laid against Red's spine.

“Do it harder,” Red says, quiet.

So Sans does, testing deeper pressure on a stretch of spine he's already loosened up. Red's throaty, shameless groan shocks through the quiet. Sans goes still.

Pressing back into Sans's touch, Red purrs, "Just like that."

Sans swallows and does it again, more confidently, earning himself an even better moan for his efforts. Red is practically in his lap, and Sans is distractingly aware of the fact that he promised a happy ending.

But the back of Red's neck is tight as hell, and his lumbar spine is just as bad. Years of tension and pain. Nobody's ever done this for Red before. Red's never _let_ anybody do this for him. 

Sans leans forward, pressing a brief kiss to the collar, and says, "You sure changed your tune."

"Yeah, well, eat my ass," Red says, which loses some of its sting when Sans turns his attention to a lingering knot of tension at the point where Red's neck meets his shoulder and Red makes a noise like he's getting thoroughly and blissfully fucked. "Oh fuck, right there. Keep doing that."

Sans huffs a laugh. "Don't worry, buddy. I'm not even close to done with you yet."

***

To give Edge credit where credit's due, when he comes home to find Red sprawled facedown on the couch and Sans straddling Red's pelvis, Edge only takes a few seconds to mentally reboot.

"Hey, edgelord," Sans says, straightening from his attempt to deal with that last stubborn spot on Red’s lumbar spine. His own spine pops in several places, protesting him staying in that position for so long. 

Red doesn't even lift his head, just opens one eye to confirm that it’s Edge before closing it again. He mumbles something into the upholstery. It might be _hey, boss._ It might be the solution to the Hodge Conjecture. The world will never know.

Edge eyes them both, then closes and locks the door. "I'm gone for a few hours and you break my brother."

Red raises his arm, which is dangling limply off the couch, to flip Edge off. Then he lets it drop again.

“I stand corrected,” Edge says dryly. “He’s fine.”

Sans shrugs, trying to flex out the ache in his fingers. Turns out all those handjobs didn't quite prepare him for a few hours of forcing Red’s spine into submission, but he’ll live. Getting Red all warm and slack and mellow is worth a little stiffness and some blue balls. “Yeah, I’d give him a juicebox but I think he’d drown in it right now.”

“Juicebox?” Red says with sleepy interest.

“I’m out,” Sans admits. “You drank my last one yesterday.”

Red gives a truly tragic sigh. Then, in case Edge isn’t picking up what he’s putting down, he opens one eye again to give Edge an expectant look.

“I’ll get one from the kitchen, you spoiled bastard,” Edge says, still watching them from the doorway. His voice is dry and slightly impatient, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that Sans wants to bask in like lazy summer sunlight. 

On his way to the kitchen, Edge pauses at the couch and takes Sans’s hands in his own. He bends and kisses Sans’s knuckles, a gravely serious gesture that’s almost as sweet as the quick pulse of healing magic Edge presses into his stiff and aching fingers. Edge can’t thank him for doing what Edge isn’t allowed to, at least not in front of Red, but Sans gets the message loud and clear. It’s not a big deal, just a simple backrub, but Edge doesn’t seem to think so.

He wonders if Edge would unwind like this with a little gentle handling. The thought makes his neglected magic pulse between his legs.

“I suppose you want a juicebox too,” Edge says.

“Yeah, sure,” Sans says, distracted by the look in Edge’s eyes. “Thanks.”

Edge releases him and continues into the kitchen. Sans can hear the fridge door open and close; so can the cats, judging from the immediate _mraow?_ of feline interest from the other side of the house. Edge is surrounded by nosy, demanding, insatiable beasts. Good thing he seems to enjoy it so much.

Then Red forcibly reclaims his attention by grinding back into him. Sans’s breath catches, and Red murmurs not quite quietly enough that Sans can be sure Edge can’t hear from the kitchen, “About that happy ending. You wanna skedaddle to the bathroom for a couple minutes?”

Sans lies, “Nah. Spoiler: the juicebox was the happy ending all along.”

“Mm.” Red relaxes beneath him, sinking deeper into the couch. “Next thing you know, you’re gonna tell me Rosebud was his sled.”

“Just wait ‘til you hear about Keyzer Soze.”

Red laughs, a surprisingly soft noise. “I’ll get you back next time.”

Promise or threat, it’s hard to tell. It comes out to about the same thing, with Red. Sans runs a hand down Red’s naked spine, satisfied with his work, and says, “Okay.”


	4. day 27: phone sex (ATTL kustard)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in endnotes

When Sans's phone rings, he picks up and says without preamble, "I don't know how you even talked me into this."

"Hi to you too, babe," Red says, unruffled. There's a creak of bedsprings; Sans can nearly see him, sprawled out across his mattress looking incredibly pleased with himself. "What's the matter? You nervous?"

"Most of my body is on one side of town and my cunt's on the other, so yeah, I'm a little out of sorts." Sans flings an arm across his eyes. He's tired of staring at the ceiling of this surprisingly nice no-tell motel room and questioning all of his life choices as he waits for Red to touch him or call or _something_. He feels like an idiot, giving Red his cunt, wasting money on a room just so he doesn't have to worry that Papyrus will come home unexpectedly and hear him getting railed. When he speaks again, there's an uncomfortably plaintive note in his voice. "Are we gonna do this or what?"

"You still wanna?" Red asks.

And there's the most annoying thing of all: Sans really does. Red didn't have to try very hard to talk him into this at all, just casually mention in a particularly filthy session of dirty talk during sex that if they played this game, Sans would be helpless to do anything but get fucked until he felt the come dripping out of him, not sure when Red would stop or how cruel he would be, not sure if Red would even get him off or just _use_ him until--

Sans can feel the slick heat trickle out of his cunt as he gets wetter. He swallows hard and says with false casualness, "Well, I already spent money on this room and everything, so..."

"Heh." Warm bone brushes along Sans's slit, gathering up his wetness on gentle fingertips. Sans shudders as Red says, "Yeah, that's true. But if you're not into it, I can always come over so we can play Parcheesi."

"Do I--" Sans's breath hitches as he hears Red suck his fingers clean. "Do I not look into it or something?"

Red laughs, a low chuckle that rubs pleasantly over Sans's nerves. His fingertips find Sans's clit, gliding in the wet, and Sans chokes on a whine. His hips twitch, but it doesn't bring that maddeningly light touch closer. There's nothing he can do but take it. Red says, "No, baby. You're soaking my fingers. Left a wet spot on the sheets."

"Sheets?" Sans echoes dizzily, his thoughts scattering as Red strokes him. "Since when do you have sheets?"

"I don't," Red says.

"I--" Light as it is, Red's touch feels so good. Sans can feel himself clenching around emptiness in longing little flutters, his face heating up as he wonders if Red can see it. He licks his teeth. "Are you..."

"In my brother's bed?" Red asks, ruthless as a knife between the ribs. "Is that what you're asking?"

"Fuck," Sans says, the word jerked involuntarily out of him. A hot tremor runs through him. "Red--"

"He won't mind a bit," Red says. "Just listen to you. Sounds like you're already close just thinking about it. You like thinking about him smelling you in his sheets?"

Sans's fingers curl and uncurl in the cheap motel bedspread. He can't just say it, but fuck yes, he likes it. He wishes he was there, held down in Edge's much finer sheets, smelling the ghost of Edge's soap as Red fucks him. He clears his throat, but his voice still comes out rusty. "Oh, yeah. You being too lazy to do a load of laundry gets me hot.”

There's a whisper of those silky sheets as Red moves, and then the hot drag of Red's tongue up his slit. Sans manages not to yelp, but the sharp hitch of his inhaled breath makes Red chuckle. That hint of vibration makes Sans's femurs tremble, his legs falling further open as if Red is actually between them. He should've taken his clothes off for this; he's sweating even in the over air-conditioned room. Each slow lick drags Sans closer to giving Red a humiliating whimper, and then it just stops. He groans his frustration before he can bite his tongue.

"Aw," Red says. Sans can almost see the malicious grin on his face. "You didn't really think I was gonna let you come, did you?"

Sans lets his head thump back against the bed. The pleasure winds back down resentfully, ready to be stoked at the slightest touch. His cunt throbs dully in time with the beat of his soul. "I have no idea how I got that impression."

"Can't blame me for wanting a taste." Red's thumb flicks cruelly across Sans's clit, and Sans jerks, nearly fumbling the phone. In a subtly different tone, the one that says Red's pausing the game for a moment, Red asks, "C'n I put you on speaker?"

"Fine," Sans says, still a little out of breath.

The sound quality changes, getting slightly tinnier. Cool air brushes over Sans's wet cunt as he's moved, and he tenses in anticipation of Red's cock sinking into him. Much like Sans, it doesn't come.

"By the by," Red says. There's a trace of something in his voice that draws all of Sans's nerves pleasantly tight. "All you gotta do is say the word and I'll stop."

Sans rubs a hand over his face. "Yeah, I know that." _I trust you._ "Also, that's not suspicious at all. Color me completely unconcerned about potential shenanigans."

"You're usually up for some shenanigans." There's another rustle of cloth as Red settles in and gets comfortable. Red says, "You wanna know why I put you on speaker?"

"You wanted both hands free. Seems pretty obvious," Sans says.

"Nah." Sans can hear the grin in Red's voice, sharp teeth and vicious satisfaction. "It's so he can hear you."

Sans freezes, his mind vapor-locked by a spike of sheer adrenaline and arousal and _longing_. It takes several seconds to rationality to kick in and remind him: it's 2:30 on a weekday. Edge is at work, or he was when Sans stopped by for lunch with him, at least. Edge isn't really the kind of guy who skips work for sex, and Red isn't the kind of guy who'd spring this on Sans if it was legit. Red's fucking with his mind as much as his body.

Sans could pump the brakes. He could ask what the hell Red is doing. Hell, he could grab his phone and text Edge real fast to be sure he's still at work. That would be the smart thing to do.

"You still with me, sweetheart?" Red asks.

"Where..." Sans's mouth seems incredibly dry, suddenly. He clears his throat. "Where is he? In the living room?"

Red laughs, quiet and delighted. That familiar laugh hits Sans just like the praise that normally comes with it; operant conditioning as its best. "Maybe. Or maybe he's right here. Maybe I'm on his lap, just waiting for him to use your cunt on me."

The shudder wracks through Sans like a fever. Red must be able to hear his bones rattle as he struggles to take in a breath. He covers his eyes with a hand as if that can save him from the mental image of Edge sitting against the headboard, fully dressed, with Red naked on his lap and Sans's soaked cunt held safely in his hand. But Sans still sees it, as vivid as if it's burned into his skull. When a leather-clad finger runs gently over his clit, stroking it through the hood, Sans can't bite back a whimper.

(He knows the trick of it. He just couldn't hear Red put the glove on over the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears, that’s all. If Edge was there, Sans would know. He’d hear Edge breathing.) 

(But what if--)

"That's right," Red murmurs as that light, reverent touch continues, making Sans shake. "Just let him hear you."

Sans’s trembling hand moves from his eyes to cover his mouth, trying to muffle the shaky little noises spilling from him. Judging from Red’s pleased growl, Red can still hear him just fine. Sans can’t keep quiet, devastated by the simple touch of Red’s (_Edge’s_) finger moving in light circles on his clit. The pleasure is rising, slowly, maddeningly, until he’s panting in humid breaths against his fingers.

Red lets out a shaky breath. Then the broad head of his cock presses against Sans’s cunt, opening him up by slow degrees as if guided by a firm, controlling hand. The steady touch on his clit never falters. Sans presses his hand harder to his mouth because he can’t control the sharply rising volume of his moans any more than he can control how slowly Red sinks into him.

“Fuck,” Red whispers, almost awed.

His cock slides out of him and then in again at a different angle, _deep_, and Sans twists to the side and manages to smother most of his desperate cry into the pillow as he comes around Red’s dick. The orgasm is long and wrenching, leaving him grasping weakly at the motel bedspread and wishing with humiliating intensity that someone was here to hold him through it.

When it’s over, Sans grabs the phone he dropped as he was coming. Red’s saying something, filthy praise that was wasted on the bedspread, and Sans cuts him off with, “You’re an asshole.”

“Now is that any way to talk to the boss?” Red asks, his grin audible.

Sans snorts, dragging a shaky hand over his face. “Right, like he wouldn’t know who I mean. I have questions about the integrity of this roleplay.”

“I dunno,” Red says, his voice sly. “Being an asshole kinda runs in the family. Speaking of, you might wanna bite that pillow again.”

“I wasn’t _biting_\--” Sans starts.

Red thrusts into him with a wet noise Sans can hear over the speaker. It drives the breath out of him in a groan that’s as much aggravation as desire because all things considered, he really should’ve seen that coming.

Ha. He’ll have to remember to tell Red that pun later. 

Much, much later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Red and Sans fantasize about a dubcon scenario (Edge sitting in on phone sex and using Sans's detached pussy on Red without prior consent). The most that actually happened is that Red was a dick and ruined a pair of Edge's gloves so he could have sex in Edge's bed while he wasn't around, which Edge finds both aggravating and hot, like most things to do with Red. 
> 
> This isn't a canon fic and doesn't fit anywhere in the ATTL timeline, but I liked it, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


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